As grapevines went, it was, as the St. Helena Star proclaimed, "the largest collection in the United States."

The year was 1882. The site had been dubbed To Kalon, a vineyard that would come to define the sweet core of Napa Valley.

Hamilton Crabb, at the time one of the country's foremost vine nurserymen, provided the newspaper a list of the bounty in his fields. And what a bounty.

The relatively recognizable grapes - Zinfandel, Marsanne, Dolcetto, Verdelho and, yes, Cabernet Sauvignon - were equaled by the obscure: Rulander, Zerbibo (probably Zibibbo, or Muscat of Alexandria), Gross (a.k.a. Gros) Verdot, Mataro (Mourvedre) and what would balloon to nearly 400 more, everything from table grapes to Black Burgundy - now thought to be the grape known as Mondeuse.

Crabb's vine menagerie would vanish over time, as much else did that was planted in Napa. Prohibition slashed in half the 21,000 vineyard acres planted in 1890, according to historian Charles Sullivan. But vineyards would surge again beginning in the 1960s, to today's high of nearly 46,000 acres.

Today we think of Napa as ground zero for Cabernet and its relations, with bit parts for Chardonnay and Sauvignon Blanc. But what has long been California's epicenter for wine once told a different, more diverse, tale.

This isn't to question the legendary beauty of Cabernet in Napa. Rather, it's to consider that change, even in Napa, is constant. The valley once had a more complex viticultural life - and might again, if the grim will of economics can be balanced with a belief in diversity in the field.

Let's first dispel the notion of Cabernet über alles. In the 1960s, neither Chardonnay nor Cabernet was more than a bit player in Napa. More than four times as much Petite Sirah was planted, and there was even more Gamay (in truth, probably the Valdiguié grape, as we'll get to). Only in 1994 did Cabernet finally trump Chardonnay in the annual crush report.

So imagine, if you will, the prospect of a Napa Valley known for wine in general, from a long roster of grapes, rather than just a tiny A-list. A series of market changes, and the 1990 law that required new wineries to crush three-quarters of their grapes from within Napa County, shifted that balance.

Case in point: Chenin Blanc. Chenin, originally from the Loire but a longtime California stalwart, was once a major part of Napa's produce. In 1991, there were 1,152 acres of the grape in Napa; now there are 22.

Indeed, the Chenin produced by the Mondavi brothers at the Charles Krug winery in the 1950s and '60s was highly desired. That, not their Cabernet, was often an allocated wine. Like the Green Hungarian that Lee Stewart bottled at his Souverain winery, it was meant to complement a lighter meal, something less studious than what then was known as Pinot Chardonnay.

Hints of Chenin's legacy remain. Up on Pritchard Hill, the Chappellet family inherited plantings when they acquired their property in 1967, and despite Donn Chappellet's admission he "probably wouldn't have planted it," it became a part of the winery's success - only to be dropped and then revived after a 2004 replanting.

The new Chappellet bottlings are a work in progress; for $30 a bottle I might want more magnitude to rival the heights of the Loire. But the winery's commitment shows that it's possible to preserve shards of the unusual even in the highest of high-rent districts.

Yes, it helps that the land it's planted on was acquired when land wasn't nearly so dear. And yes, it is a side project. But it's also a commitment to honoring a broad view of what brought Napa its fame.

Same with the Grignolino made by Heitz Cellar. (Also their eminently cheery Grignolino Rosé, which made my Top 100 Wines last year.) This is hardly part of some new and wonky subculture. Joe Heitz began making Grignolino in the early 1960s from a pre-existing planting.

Grignolino - originally a Piedmontese grape, and one that still makes a perky, strawberry-scented light red on both continents - was always a counterpoint to more stately and expensive wines like the Martha's Vineyard Cabernet.

Certainly Heitz's version rivals excellent Italian examples. Curiously enough, one visiting critic recently questioned whether Napa could make a "truly great" version of Grignolino. (What, I wonder, does that benchmark involve?) Arguably, it's not about greatness but charm - a commitment to an older belief, one found both in the Old World and during an earlier time in California, a winemaker's job is not simply about making so-called great wines.

Long Heitz lineup

Indeed, the Grignolino is an artifact of a onetime lineup from Heitz that also contained Riesling, sherry, so-called "Burgundy," and so on. No different with Inglenook's inventory in the John Daniel era, when varieties like Charbono took a place alongside Cabernet.

This isn't to endorse a totally scattershot approach. Winemakers need focus. But to narrow down to just one or two obvious choices is in the spirit of Hollywood's blockbuster-only tendencies. And there's something to be said for indie cred.

One other thing: The fact that the Heitzes have maintained vines since 1961 to make what Kathleen Heitz calls "just a fun little wine" in the heart of St. Helena Cabernet country is more than just a slug of nostalgia. To keep around a wine like this is a moral act - a sign of commitment to diversity in a place where diversity is often in peril.

Let's not overlook the charm of the new. The recent and well-documented success of Italianate grapes like Ribolla Gialla and Tocai Friulano (although Friulano has arguably been around almost since Crabb's day) has made them at least a modest part of Napa's current vocabulary. That winemakers like Steve Matthiasson or Massican's Dan Petroski can stretch from Ribolla to Chardonnay to Cabernet is a sign of how Napa can bridge its modern success with a charming past.

Rise of Albarino

For that matter, the quiet rise of the Spanish native Albarino (to a whopping 13 acres in Napa) gives hope that dabbling isn't dead. There's particularly good evidence found in specimens from some A-list winemakers, including John Kongsgaard, or Michael Havens and Morgan Twain-Peterson, who partnered on the Abrente label, itself a continuation of Havens introducing that grape to these shores. These examples show how Carneros could rewrite its destiny with white wines.

Also in Carneros, no less a grower than Lee Hudson (http://is.gd/leehud) planted seven experimental white grapes on property that grows some of Napa's top Chardonnay and Merlot. He installed not only Ribolla, Friulano and Albarino but also Arneis, Greco, Vermentino and Verdejo, intending to blend several into a wine called White Study No. 1 - a tribute, per Hudson's deep fondness for art, to Abstract Expressionism.

The success of those white grapes simply echoes the onetime presence of many white varieties throughout the valley, including Sylvaner and particularly Riesling - stalwart choices of 19th century German immigrants that thrived well into the midcentury. With Riesling down to just 133 acres, a 10th of what it was 30 years ago, it too is a sideshow - and perhaps one that, aside from examples like Stony Hill and Smith-Madrone, might not be an ideal fit for much of Napa.

New Calder label

But that hasn't stopped Napa natives like Rory Williams, son of Frog's Leap co-founder John Williams, from giving it serious consideration with his new Calder label - along with Charbono, Carignane and other orphans in Napa's great push to the mainstream. (http://is.gd/caldernv)

Riesling is, admittedly, faring better than a grape that adopted Napa's name: Napa Gamay, now revealed as the variety Valdiguié, which once was the valley's answer to Beaujolais. The 24 remaining acres in Napa are hardly infringing on the ubiquity of Cabernet, even if a wine like the Robert Mondavi Gamay was, in 1975, rated as highly as the winery's Unfiltered Cabernet. So pour out a sip for Valdiguié, if only to remember the pleasure it once brought.

Other bit players have fared better. Rambunctious Petite Sirah has retained a modest loyalty, whether in versions from Stags' Leap Winery, Turley or others. Zinfandel, which can be exquisitely finessed when grown in Napa's volcanic soils, remains a contender - far more so than poor Semillon, once the great companion to Sauvignon Blanc. Muscadelle, a.k.a. Sauvignon Vert, has a few defenders, like the Nichelini winery in the Chiles Valley area of eastern Napa, although a few stronger examples might help to make a case for the grape, given its role in the Bordeaux-native roster.

What, then, is really at work? The tendency is to chalk things up to the whims of taste. Yes, for sure, Napa is a sometimes magical place for Cabernet; nothing should discourage that. But that conclusion ignores the relentless push of marketing - California's desire over the past 30 years to replace diversity with simplicity.

More than anything, it ignores the real issue: economics. With pride, Napa has become the most valuable agricultural land in the nation; prime vineyard now often tops $250,000 per acre.

With what consequence? For one, it is very hard to justify growing anything but Cabernet - and even that variety is still a tough proposition for most newcomers. Think the economic odds are in your favor? You'd do better in "The Hunger Games."

Hence choosing to embrace Napa's unexpected side is the longest of long bets. But history does tell me this: Even in Napa Valley, change can happen quicker than you'd expect, especially with climate change peering open a mischievous eye. When a successful farmer like Hudson is willing to diversify, anything is possible.

But why not keep betting on the obvious? Hudson explained it to me this way: "There's 2,800 vinifera varieties. I just want to swim in the garden. Let's plant all this stuff."

Hamilton Crabb would no doubt be pleased by that thought.

Jon Bonné is The San Francisco Chronicle's wine editor. Find more of his coverage at sfgate.com/wine. E-mail: jbonne@sfchronicle.com Twitter: @jbonne